He pronounced it “tay,” as if he liked the Old World flavor of the word. There was something Old World, too, about his living-room, which was crowded with ancient tobacco-colored furniture. Some outdated copies of Punch lay on the table beside the battery radio. There were pictures on the wall from the Illustrated London News, and a few old photographs.
One was an enlarged snapshot of a muscular man in shirt-sleeves who had his arm around a sunbonneted woman. They were standing in front of a white frame house, smiling at each other. Though the house was ugly and boxlike, the people poorly dressed, there was something idyllic about the scene. The smiles had a prewar innocence. I looked more closely at them and saw that the man was MacGowan, beardless and in his prime.
The old man limped out of the kitchen. “Kettle will soon be boiling. Have a seat.”
“You’re very kind.”
“The shoe’s on the other foot. I welcome a visitor. I haven’t had one for a month, and it’s lonely living since my old woman died.” He indicated the enlargement with his thumb. “That’s her and I, taken twenty-five years ago. I wasn’t always a kind of a hermit like I am now.”
“You stay up here all winter by yourself?”
“I do.”
“I couldn’t stand the loneliness.”
He sat down stiffly in an old plush armchair, which emitted a puff of dust under his weight. Some of the dust was caught in the light from the window, and swirled there like boiling gold.
“There’s different kinds of loneliness, mister—what did you say your name was?”
“Lew Archer.”
“Different kinds of loneliness,” he repeated. “The kind you make for yourself is the best. You get a certain satisfaction out of living alone, not needing anybody else, especially when you’re old. You know, a man gets weary batting around in the world. I’ve done a lot of things in my time, sailed A.B. from Glasgow, raised wheat in Manitoba, mined silver in Nevada and copper in the Traverse mines. I was a janitor in San Berdoo before I came up here. But the city never suited me just right. I used to go back to Traverse just about every year for my vacation.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard of Traverse. Is it in California?”
“Yeah, over near the Nevada border.” He pointed at the enlarged snapshot again. “That picture was taken in Traverse in the old days, when there were more than a thousand souls in the place. It’s just a ghost town now, nothing left but the buildings, and most of them are sliding downhill. The mine’s worked out, you see. Last time I was there, three-four years ago, there wasn’t a single living human being.” He smiled reminiscently. “It suited me fine after San Berdoo.”
“Did you have any other family besides your wife?” I wanted to get back to the subject of his granddaughter.
“I had a son,” he said. “He’d be about your age now. He was killed in an accident at Terminal Island. They gave him a draft exemption because he worked in the shipyards, and then they went ahead and killed him anyway. I didn’t see much of him for a long time before that, though. He took up with a Filipino girl, and I didn’t think too well of the idea.”
His mind veered in the light and shifting wind of his own feelings: “It wasn’t Jo’s fault she grew up a little wild. Her mother married again—another Filipino this time—and they let the lass run those Long Beach streets when she should of been in school.”
“You’re talking about your granddaughter?”
“Yes. She’s living in Las Cruces now. You don’t happen to know her?”
“I may at that,” I said casually. “What’s her name?”
“I disremember her married name, but she calls herself Jo Summer most of the time. It’s kind of a stage name, she wants to be a professional singer. Maybe you’ve heard her sing at that nightclub in Las Cruces—the Golden Slipper?”
“No, but I’ve met her.”
He leaned forward in the creaking armchair. “What do you think of the place she’s working in? It’s a pretty low-down dive, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“That’s what I told her,” he said. “I told her no young married woman should take a job in a public bar like that. Not with a boss like Kerrigan anyway. But she wouldn’t listen. I’m too old and she’s too young, and we can’t talk to each other. She thinks I’m an old fool. Maybe I am, but I can’t help worrying about her. Was she all right when you saw her?”
I didn’t have to answer. The kettle chirred and began to whistle. MacGowan went into the kitchen. While he made the tea, I tried to figure out what to say to him.
He brewed it black and bitter, like my thoughts.
“This is good tea,” was what I finally said.
He blinked in acknowledgment over his tilted cup. It was a decent piece of china, decorated with an old-fashioned pink-and-gold flower pattern. He set it down gently on the table beside him.
“You ought to hear her sing. Not that jazzy stuff she sings in the nightclub, but some of the old songs, Annie Laurie, Comin through the Rye. I got her to sing them for me when she was visiting here.”
“When was that?”
“Last month. She came up the hill around the first of September, brought her husband with her.” His black eyes fastened on my face. “Do you know her husband, too? I don’t recall his name.”
“What does he look like?”
“I didn’t like the looks of him, to tell the truth. He’s a redheaded lad—”
“Bozey?”
“That’s the name. You know him, eh?”
“Not very well.”
“What sort of a boy is he?” His face had darkened, sinking on its bones. “I’ll tell you why I ask. He didn’t act the way a young husband should act on his honeymoon.”
“It was their honeymoon?”
“So they said. I had my doubts about it. It’s a nasty thought, but I even doubted they were properly married. He didn’t treat her with proper respect. Are they getting along?”
“I wouldn’t know. I do know he’s a rough customer. See the marks on my face?”
“I’d have to be blind not to see them. I didn’t like to mention them.”
“Bozey gave them to me.”
“He did? With his iron knucks?”
“Don’t tell me he worked you over.”
“He never got a chance to” MacGowan said grimly. “I kicked him out bag and baggage before he could try anything on me. But it was touch-and-go there for a minute.”
“What happened?”
“I was doing my washing that day, the day he left. They were some place outside and I opened up their suitcase to see if they had anything needed washing. Shook out one of his dirty shirts, and it had a gun wrapped in it, an automatic pistol, and a pair of iron knucks. That didn’t look too good to me. I rummaged around some more and found the money in the bottom of the suitcase.”
“Money?”
“Yep. A lot of money, wrapped in old newspapers. Big bills, too. There must of been thousands of dollars. It didn’t make sense to me—an able-bodied bum like him who couldn’t even afford a hotel honeymoon. So when they came back, I asked him about the money. And the knucks. And the gun.”
“That was a brave thing to do.”
“Don’t worry, I took precautions. I loaded my deer-rifle and held it across my knees while I was talking to him. He looked like he wanted to kill me, but the rifle held him off.”
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t say very much of anything. Just called me a few bad names and walked into the bedroom and got his suitcase and put it in his car and drove away. Jo didn’t want him to go, but he paid no attention to what she said. He dropped her like a hotcake. I guess you can hardly blame her for taking up with Kerrigan after that.” A puzzled frown wrinkled his forehead. “But now you tell me she’s back with Bozey again?”
“More or less.”
“Is he a robber or something like that?”
“Something like that. Did he ever talk to you about his backgroun
d?”
“Not very much. He was only here a couple of days. Let me think. He mentioned New Mexico once or twice, did a little bragging about his connections in Albuquerque.”
“What kind of connections?”
“Business connections. I think he said something about the liquor business. But I knew he was a fourflusher, and I didn’t pay much attention.”
“You must have asked Jo about him after he left.”
“Yeah, but she didn’t know much. She said she only met him the week before, in Los Angeles. I tried to talk her out of going back to him.” He stirred uneasily. “I guess I better go and see her again.”
“You might have a long way to go.”
He looked at me questioningly.
“Mr. MacGowan, how is your health? Is your heart in good shape?”
He was flattered by my interest, and thumped himself on the chest. “Nothing the matter there. Why?”
“Your granddaughter’s in trouble.”
“Jo in trouble? Is it serious?”
“Yes. She’s wanted for car theft and on suspicion of murder. Kerrigan was shot last night. I saw her running away from the place where it happened.”
He was silent for a long time. The minutes droned like dying flies in the corners of the room. His body seemed to shrink in the chair.
“You’ve been making a fool of me,” he said at last. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Hurt me?” His bearded mouth was twisted. “I knew Jo was headed for trouble. I did what I could to stop her. I went down to Las Cruces and tried to shake her loose from Kerrigan, from Kerrigan and that town of his. When you’ve seen as much of the world as I have—” His hand swept sideways in a brusque blind movement that sent his teacup crashing to the floor.
I got down on my knees and started to pick up the pieces. I felt that it was the least I could do, and the most.
Leaning above me, he said thinly: “Did she murder him?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said she stole a car. Why did she have to do that? I would have given her money, all I’ve got.”
“It was transportation she needed, and she needed it then. Maybe she intended to come up here to you.”
I looked up at him. He wagged his head slowly from side to side. “She didn’t come to me.”
I finished gathering the thin white pieces in the unbroken saucer, and set it on the table. He picked up one translucent shard and held it to the light.
“That was the last of the set. We bought it the year we were married, in the Hudson’s Bay Company store in Winnipeg. Augh.” He dropped it back into the saucer. “No use crying over spilt milk. Thanks for your trouble, boy.”
There was another silence.
“What happened to her husband, if that’s what he is?”
“Bozey’s wanted, too, and on the run. He highjacked a truckload of whisky. The driver was killed.”
“Another one killed?”
“That’s right. Do you have any idea where Bozey could have run to? Or Jo?”
“I should say not.” He levered himself out of the chair and stood looking down at me. “What about this woman that’s missing, the one that lost her heel? Where does she come into all this?”
“That’s the question I have to answer. One of them.” I got up and moved to the door. “I’m driving back to Las Cruces now. Can I give you a lift?”
“Thank you kindly, I’ll drive myself. I need a chance to think. I need a little time to take this in.”
“If Jo turns up here, will you let me know? You can reach me through Mrs. Kerrigan.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said. “Maybe I will and maybe I won’t. Augh, she won’t come here anyway, not to me.”
He opened the door for me. The fierce sun clawed at his face.
CHAPTER 18: I drove back through the green silence along the lake-shore road. Passing the Kerrigan cabin, I saw the red convertible parked in the entrance to the lane. Mrs. Kerrigan waved at me frantically through the windshield. I left my car at the roadside and went to hers.
She was beautifully dressed and groomed, in black silk and a black hat and black gloves. Except for her eyes and mouth, her face was colorless.
“I didn’t expect to see you,” I said.
“Sally Devore told me where you were. I knew you had to come back this way. I’ve been waiting.”
“For these?”
I brought her keyring out of my pocket and handed it in through the window. It jangled nervously in her gloved hand.
“It isn’t why I came,” she said. “Now that I’m here, though, I’d like to see the cabin. Will you come up with me?”
“I wouldn’t go in if I were you.”
“Is she there? I knocked on the door and no one answered. Is she hiding inside?”
“No. She’s nowhere around. Anne Meyer’s dropped out of sight, as your husband said.”
“But he was lying to me about Monday. Mrs. Devore saw them together on Monday.”
“Apparently she did. So did old MacGowan at the Inn. He caught them in the woods, doing a rather peculiar thing.”
A faint flush appeared on her cheekbones. “Were they making love?”
“Hardly. She was digging a hole in the ground. Your husband was watching her dig.”
“A hole? I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. Do you mind if I get in?”
“Of course. Please do.”
She slid over in the seat, making room for me behind the wheel. I showed her the brown leather heel.
“Do you recognize this?”
She took it from me and held it up to the light. “I believe I do. Who is it supposed to belong to?”
“You tell me.”
“Anne Meyer?”
“Are you guessing, or do you know?”
“I can’t be absolutely certain. I think she was wearing shoes like this when I saw her last Friday. Where did you get this?”
“In the woods. She seems to have lost it when MacGowan frightened them off.”
“I see.” She dropped the heel in my hand as if it was tainted. “Why in the world were they digging a hole in the woods?”
“Not they. She was digging. He was standing there watching her. It raises a lot of questions, and one possible answer. I’ve heard of sadistic murderers taking their victims to a lonely place and forcing them to dig their own graves. If he was planning to kill her—”
“But it’s incredible.” The words exploded softly from her mouth. “Don couldn’t have done a thing like that.”
“You told me he was a sadist.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. I was speaking loosely.” She was gripping the door-handle as if we were going around a curve at high speed.
“So am I. It’s merely a possibility that occurred to me.” I offered her a cigarette, which she refused, and lit one for myself. “Did you see him Monday night when he came home?”
“Yes. It was very late, but I was still awake.”
“Did he say anything to you at all?”
“I don’t remember. No. I was in bed. He didn’t come to bed. He sat up drinking. I heard him prowling around the house for a long time. Eventually I took a sleeping-pill.” Her hand shifted from the door-handle to my arm. “How can you say he killed her? You don’t even know that she’s dead.”
“No, but the signs are bad. If she isn’t dead, where is she?”
“Are you asking me?” The pressure of her hand was almost painful. Her eyes were a tragic blue black. “You can’t believe that I killed her?”
“That’s true. I can’t.”
She didn’t seem to notice my denial. “I was at home all day Monday. I can prove it. I had a friend with me all afternoon. She came for lunch and stayed until nearly dinnertime. Do you know who she was?”
“It doesn’t matter. You don’t have to prove an alibi for me.”
“I can, though, and I want to. It was Marion Westm
ore who was with me—the District Attorney’s wife. We were planning the Junior League rummage sale. It seems such an awfully long time ago, more like four years than four days. And what a silly way to spend an afternoon.”
“You think so?”
“I do now. Everything seems silly to me now. Did you ever have the feeling that time had stopped for you? That you were living in a vacuum, without a future or even a past?”
“I had it once,” I said. “The week after my wife left me. But it didn’t last. It won’t last for you, either. You’ll get over it.”
“I didn’t know you had a wife.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Why did she leave you?”
“She said she couldn’t stand the life I led. That I gave too much to other people and not enough to her. And I guess she was right in a way. But it really boiled down to the fact that we weren’t in love any more. At least, one of us wasn’t.”
“Which one?”
“I’d rather not go into it. Exhuming corpses is an ugly business.”
The rebuff held her silent for a time. She looked out toward the lake, which glimmered like fragments of fallen sky between the trees.
“I suppose I asked for that,” she said. “You have been kind to me, though, last night, and again today. I can’t help wondering if it’s simply a technique. Is this your crimeside manner, Mr. Archer? Your psychological third-degree?”
There was enough truth in the question to make me wince. “I’m playing it as straight as I can with you. I don’t deny I’ve been tempted to use people, play on their feelings, push them around. Those are the occupational diseases of my job.”
“And you don’t have them?”
“I have them.” Jo Summers changing smile wavered smokily behind my eyes. “This is a dirty business I’m in. All I can do is watch myself and keep it as clean as I can.” I felt as if she’d put me on the spot, and I changed the direction of the conversation: “What brought you up here, anyway?”
“I don’t know for certain. Perhaps I simply wanted to see you again.” She wouldn’t look at me. “Is that a dreadful confession for a woman to make to a man?”
Find a Victim Page 12
